Growing Pains
by MrsBeilschmidt3
Summary: Carter may be one of Hogan's Heroes, but he's still a kid... and he still misses home. And sometimes, he still needs somebody to take care of him.


**Heyyy guys!(: So guess who's gotten totally obsessed with** _ **Hogan's Heroes?**_ **Yep, this girl! XD And I just** _ **love**_ **Newkirk and Carter, and their cute brotherly relaionship (I have an older and younger brother so I can relate). :3 So, that being said, here goes nothing!**

" **G** in!" Corporal Peter Newkirk exclaimed, holding up his cards with a wide, toothy grin. "I win again!"

"I swear, someday you're going to get caught cheating," Newkirk's fellow corporal, Louis LeBeau, pouted.

"Cheatin'? Who's cheatin'? I-"

The barracks door swung open to announce the arrival of Hans Schultz, the portly, soft sergeant of the guard at Stalag 13, where Newkirk and LeBeau were prisoners of war. "Letter time!" he announced, holding up several envelopes, and all the men cheered and jumped to their feet, the card game instantly forgotten.

"Colonel Hogan, one for you-" Schultz handed an envelope to the black-haired, brown-eyed senior POW officer. "Sergeant Kinchloe, one for you-" A young African American stood up and took his letter. "Corporal Newkirk, Corporal LeBeau, Sergeant Carter…"

Newkirk watched to see Andrew Carter, a somewhat scrawny American and the youngest of the prisoners at only twenty years old, stand up quietly and receive his letter, thanking Schultz and sitting back down on his bunk. Newkirk furrowed his brow; typically, Carter was always full of energy, talking nonstop, wanting to play with fireworks and other explosives, and certainly _never_ quiet. He was pale; was he feeling well?

Schultz left, looking strangely at the young sergeant as well on his way out, while the men read their letters to themselves. Newkirk's family was doing well, his sister Mavis thought of him every time she had tea alone and his mother swore he was the reason she was suddenly gaining many gray hairs. He chuckled a little as he finished, apparently at the same time as Carter, who stood up. "If you don't mind, Colonel, I think I might take a walk around the barracks."

Hogan eyed the boy with concern. "Everything all right back home, Carter? The letter didn't hold any bad news, did it?"

"No, everything's fine, my family's all doing well," Carter replied honestly with a shrug. "I just… I just thought a walk might be nice, I guess."

Hogan nodded, still looking uncertain. "All right, Carter, just take care of yourself."

"Yes, sir." Carter's voice sounded almost pitiful as he left the room.

Instantly Hogan and Newkirk both walked over to the bottom bunk where Carter slept every night. The letter was still there, lying somewhat carelessly on bedsheets that still bore the imprint of Carter's skinny bottom. Carter's mother wrote to say that all was well, that his girlfriend Mary Jane missed him and couldn't wait to see him again, and that she hoped he was doing all right. Nothing tragic, nothing to even cause concern.

"Carter already wasn't lookin' so good when Schultz came in with the letters, sir," Newkirk commented, scanning the letter for about the fifth time. "I'd say somethin' was already eatin' the lad up."

Hogan nodded. "Yes, I noticed that, too. We'll have to watch him, I guess. Poor kid, he tries to be tough about everything."

If there was one thing about Carter, no matter how much he tripped over his own feet, put his foot in his mouth, or whatever else, Carter was _not_ a complainer.

HH-HH-HH-HH-HH

Carter was _not_ a complainer. So it must have been pretty bad for him to wake Newkirk up in the middle of the night like this.

"Blimey, Andrew, what is it?" It had been a few days since the letter incident, and Newkirk thought Carter seemed to be doing better now. So what on earth could possibly be going on now that he had to wake him up when the _birds_ weren't even awake yet?

"I really hate to bother you, Newkirk…" Carter sounded like a guilty puppy, and when Newkirk sat up in bed and looked at him he realized that the younger man's eyes were watering.

"Carter, what is it?" All annoyance had dropped from his tone, replaced only with concern. As much as the lad got on his nerves sometimes, he always felt this need to protect him, to shelter him, like he was his own little brother.

"I'm sorry for waking you up, I just… I've been awake all night, my stomach won't leave me alone!"

Newkirk was now fully attentive. "Your _stomach?"_

Carter nodded, wincing, his face paling like he was in pain. "It hurts, and I keep feeling sick like I'm going to throw up, and I didn't know what to do 'cause you guys work so much, and everybody always tells me to shut up anyway, but I just couldn't take it-"

"Shhh." This time Newkirk didn't sound irritated, like Carter's rambling usually made him feel. Instead his tone was gentle, soothing, as he reached his palm out to Carter's brow and cheeks. He winced; it was like someone was burning coal underneath the boy's skin.

"Oh, lad… Ho, blimey… you're burning up, you know that?" Newkirk now knew he wasn't going to get any sleep tonight; he was _far_ too worried about Carter. He climbed down and lead Carter back to his own bunk, propping the younger man's head up on several pillows. "You stay there, I'll be right back." He walked over to the sinks where the men shaved and brushed their teeth, grabbing a washcloth and running it under some cool water.

Newkirk returned with the cloth, which he had wrung out over the sink, and laid it gently on the sick youth's forehead, brushing back stray locks of hair. He hesitated, then asked softly, trying not to wake up any of the other men until he knew it was necessary, "Carter, 'ave you 'ad your appendix out?"

"Yeah, when I was twelve," Carter replied, much to Newkirk's relief. "Boy, did it hurt! It felt like being stabbed or something- oh…" He held his stomach and moaned. "I'm really just sick."

Newkirk nodded. "Must be the flu or somethin'," he mused. "We'll have Wilson have a look at you tomorrow." Sergeant Joe Wilson was the camp medic.

Carter bit his lip and sighed. Newkirk knelt by his bedside, watching his face, and realized Carter's eyes were welling up again. "Hey, there, don't cry," he whispered, a little unsure of what to do. Sure, he had ten siblings, he'd dealt with crying, sick children, before, but not a crying, sick twenty-year-old to whom he wasn't even related.

"I'm sorry, Newkirk," Carter sniffled, his voice weak as he tried to combat his nausea. "I…I really don't want to be a burden to anybody. Gosh, I wish this could happen at home, where my mom would take care of me, and I know that all my family was there if I needed them…"

He paused and it slowly sunk in to Newkirk. Carter didn't complain because he already felt useless. He, LeBeau, Newkirk, Kinchloe, and Hogan were all part of a secret Underground operation, and Carter was constantly coming close to messing up missions by talking too much or forgetting something. Newkirk felt guilty, since he was usually the one who told Carter to can it after his incessant chatter.

But Carter _needed_ companionship, he _needed_ someone to talk to. He was missing home; that was what was getting at him the other day. It was exactly the fact that the letter was a good one that made the young man's homesickness all the more painful; he was stuck here, a prisoner of war, away from his family, when he was really still a kid who needed someone to look up to, someone to take care of him. And from the very beginning, that someone at Stalag 13 was Newkirk. No matter how much Newkirk rolled his eyes or told him to be quiet, Carter looked to him like he hung the moon and stars.

 _I'm like a big brother to 'im,_ Newkirk realized, trying not to let his own eyes water. He looked down at the sick kid on the bunk and squeezed his hand in simple assurance: _"I'm here."_

"Carter, I know it's not quite the same, but I'll take care of you while you're away from home… in fact, I'll _always_ take care of you, got that?"

Carter looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes full of sheer trust and Newkirk continued, "You know I miss 'ome, too? I think about merry ole England and some days I really wannna cry me ruddy eyes out. Colonel 'Ogan misses 'ome too, ya know… You know what he does when he's feelin' homesick?"

Carter shook his head and Newkirk smiles. "He goes for walks around the barracks."

"No way!" Carter almost sat up but his stomach lurched and Newkirk laid him back down. Dizzily, Carter added softly, "But… but the colonel goes on a _lot_ of walks, Newkirk."

"He misses home a _lot._ But it's harder when you're so young, isn't it? I remember. _Everything's_ harder when you're only twenty."Newkirk took the washcloth off of Carter's forehead, wetting it again and replacing it, checking to see if the younger man's fever had gone down at all. It wasn't any better; it looked as if Newkirk would be keeping vigil at Carter's bedside all night. Oh well, it was something he was more than willing to do.

Carter sniffled and shifted a little in the bunk, turning to better face his friend. "Newkirk," he asked in a soft voice, like a small child afraid of the dark, "will you stay with me? Tonight, I mean. Please don't leave me." The distance from his bunk to his "big brother's" seemed like an impossible one.

Newkirk smiled and tousled Carter's hair, watching as his eyelids fluttered shut over cheeks flushed with fever and exhaustion. Like a kid, he held onto Newkirk's hand, and Newkirk didn't let go. "Don't you worry, Andrew," he whispered just before his friend fell asleep, "I wouldn't even _dream_ of it."

And Newkirk didn't dream about _anything_ that night. He never went to sleep.


End file.
